


Searching for Signal

by follyofyouth



Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Limetown AU, Sally Royston: it's either bad judgment or no judgment, Thanks for letting me borrow Weir again Bat!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-28 22:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12617424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/follyofyouth/pseuds/follyofyouth
Summary: Her datapad blinks in the darkness. SIGNAL HACK COMPLETE, it reads. She presses play.(Limetown AU. Commander Weir belongs to inbatcountry17. Thanks, Bat!!)





	1. One

Her datapad blinks in the darkness. _SIGNAL HACK COMPLETE_ , it reads. She presses play.

“ADVENT, building a brighter future,” a woman’s voice coos.

“The gifts of the Elders!” The Speaker proclaims. 

“Unification Day,” a man intones.

There is the sound of a tape stopping short.

“Twenty years ago, ADVENT promised us a better tomorrow. We were so eager to believe them, that we never stopped to ask the cost,” her own voice cuts in. “We looked up in horror, and decided it was better to look away, that survival with a price was still survival.”

“But, somewhere along the way, we lost track of the books. We stopped keeping score. We figured our debts were paid, but ADVENT never stopped charging us. Why?”

“My name is Sally Royston, and I intend to find out.”

The music transition isn’t as smooth as she would like. It doesn’t have the polish of the shows she’d listened to once upon a time. _Then again_ , she reasons, _they probably had a little more to go on than a stolen datapad and some questionable software._

“Ask anyone in the city centers, and the odds are good you’ll find a common thread. It seems everyone knows someone who’s gone missing. Maybe they went off to join the ADVENT security forces. Maybe they never came home fro a trip to the Clinic. Maybe, they just vanished.”

“That number gets a lot higher when you look at minors in ADVENT’s care. I should know; I was one of them. In six years, thirteen people I knew went missing. That brings my personal missing count to fourteen when you add in my father.”

“That’s an awfully high number for these alleged urban paradises, especially compared to the so-called uncivilized havens. Yet, here we are.”

“Disappearances among the foster population followed a trend. The guardians take an interest in bringing the disappeared before the churches, claiming they have reason to believe the child under their had been blessed with the Elders’ favor. The clergy would take a special interest in that individual, taking the target under their wing, so to speak. Within weeks, the target would be gone, and the whole affair would be written off.”

“It’s a story that keeps repeating.”

A compilation of interview snippets fill the silence.

“A casual review of the Missing Persons reports described in these interviews confirm the details. I wasn’t able to follow up with any of my interviewees, however. Within days of contact, each and every one had likewise gone missing. If you’re curious, that brings my personal count up to twenty.”

“There is one other factor that unifies these reports: a single, red symbol, emblazoned with the word Avatar. What it means isn’t for me to say. There are no records. Any mention in intercepted ADVENT communication has been expunged. All evidence suggests that Avatar holds the key to the missing. But what holds the key to Avatar?”

The end music plays off and Betos nods. “You will certainly attract someone’s attention. I only hope it will be enough.”

\--

“Did you all hear that?” V-Day crows. “Whoever this Sally Royston girl is, sounds like she’s on a _mission_. Little girl, if you’re out there, and you mean it, we’ll _give_ you the time.”

\--

Against her better judgment, she sends a missive.

She receives one in turn.

They reach an agreement.

She will need to learn to broadcast live.

\--

Leads begin to filter in through V-Day. She follows each and every one, collecting more reports of the missing. Her count grows by leaps and bounds as the people who reach out soon join their friends and family in the ranks of the disappeared.

Midway through her second broadcast, her datapad begins to flicker as someone, or something, attempts to access it. 

“There’s something … there’s something going on here,” she says. “Bear with me everyone.”

“There are … there are hundreds of files being downloaded to my datapad from an … unknown source.”

She begins opening them as they complete.

“These are … there are admissions files. Missing persons reports. Security files. They’re all marked with the Avatar logo. There must be … hundreds here. If you’re considering a trip to your local ADVENT Clinic, I might hold off.”

A folder downloads labeled Weir, W.

 _Commander Weir_ , she thinks. Her mother’s memories flood back to her.

“I think … I think it’s time I turn you back over to V-Day. Keep searching. Keep pulling the threads. Royston out.”

 _If we want a shot at taking this planet back, we have to find the Commander_ , she remembers her mother saying. _Find Weir, and we find our chance_.

She opens the folder, and is greeted with a single text file. _There’s no place like home_.

She scrubs a hand over her face. Breaking into the XCOM alpha site is a bad idea. She is acutely aware of that fact.

It will not stop her.

\--

Betos refuses to let her go unattended.

\--

Her mother’s access codes still work. The old base still smells like a tomb, though it is curiously devoid of human remains, almost as if someone had been through to clean house. She notes, with no small amount of curiosity, that the crimson red banners her parents’ memories say should hang in tatters in Mission Control are absent.

Someone has already done her the favor of breaking into the Commander’s office. She suspects it was the same soul who took the banners.

She unplugs the computer from the wall, and connects it to a small Elerium core, then connects her datapad to the bulky device. It makes short work of the outdated security protocols, and she soon has a complete copy of the XCOM archives. She spends the next few hours preparing for the broadcast.

\--

The introduction music still isn’t as polished as she would like.

“When we last left off,” she begins. “I’d had someone or something access my datapad and leave me with several gigabytes worth of files. They conclusively tie many of the disappearances to this Avatar project. I still do not know the source of this leak, but I believe the documents to be credible.”

“Among these documents was a reference to one William Weir. Weir, for those of you who don’t know, was the Commander of XCOM, the organization that first fought to repel the invasion. Being the child of XCOM operatives, he was sort of a mythical figure growing up. ”

She plays a snippet cut from a Council call.

“My parents painted Weir as a complicated figure, but one whom they ultimately respected, and more importantly, trusted. I grew up hearing tales of a brilliant tactician and shrewd strategist, one who innately understood the balance of risk and reward. The men and women under William Weir’s command followed him, perhaps not blindly, but with near absolute trust.”

“Which speaks volumes, given how little is publicly available on the man. Finding concrete details on his past is a tall order. He’s a West Point graduate, a US Army veteran, and beyond that, something of a mystery. From what I can piece together, he had some sort of longstanding tie to anti-alien efforts.”

She plays another Council clip.

“He also didn’t make a habit of playing nicely with world leaders. Maybe he always knew what was coming. The same people he fought with were the people who would hand ADVENT the world on a silver platter just months later.”

“The next clip I’m about to play is … disturbing.”

She swallows hard as the recordings of the base incursion sound forth onto the airwaves. Hives rise along her skin, the combined terror from her parents’ memories brought to life once again. She feels like vomiting, like turning the recording off and hurling the datapad across the room. Some ghosts are not meant to be revived.

There is a sickening _crunch_.

“One of the only hard facts we have about Weir, or his fate, is this: when XCOM fell, Weir fell with it. His disappearance was perhaps humanity’s greatest loss; his continued Missing In Action status potentially our greatest hindrance.”

“What’s not clear is this: what ties him to Avatar?”

\--

When they make it back to camp, there is an odd package of sorts waiting for her: a dead ADVENT scientist, dried blood around his mouth. Betos hands her a datapad. “He said this was to be given to you.”

She sits around the fire that night, picking at dinner, and begins sifting through its contents. She doesn’t have long to look, however. There is a folder labeled “S. Royston.”

She clicks on it, and is greeted with a video of the interior of some kind of ADVENT facility. At the far end of the room is a tank with a figure suspended inside of it.

“…calibrated wrong! It is extremely unlikely the subject could be conscious after all this time. Of course we know how critical this is to the Avatar project! But with the accelerated timeline you’ve placed upon us …”

The feed fizzles out.

There are other documents, too: scans and reports. She recognizes what she believes to be a control chip, and what the reports describe as “heightened neural activity.” They confirm her worst suspicions, that the figure in the tank is XCOM’s missing commander.

Each and every one is emblazoned with the red Avatar seal.

\--

She plays the clip on air that night.  
  
“It’s hard to fully describe this,” she begins. “I must have watched it ten times, trying to glean something from it.”

She feels something encouraging, but not intrusive, at the back of her mind.

“Between this and the additional data included, we can now conclusively say that Commander William Weir _is alive,_ that ADVENT is holding him for some purpose related to the Avatar project, and that the Avatar project, whatever it is, isn’t going away.”

“Very astute, Miss Royston,” a voice cuts in.

“Hello?” She asks.

“You’ve come so far. But you still can’t quite put it together, can you?”

“Listeners, I don’t know who this is. They’re not with me.”

“That’s apparent.”

There's a presence at the back of her mind that grows anxious.

“Why are you on my ---“

“Your little show? Only to give you what you’ve been looking for. Your precious answers.”

“…Who are you?”

“Montreal quarantine zone. Tomorrow evening. 5 PM. Palais de Justice.”

The presence gives her a strong sense: _Absolutely not_.

“You heard them,” she announces. “Special broadcast. Tomorrow night. Five PM.”

\--

“There are some places even we will not tread,” Betos says. “If you will not reconsider, then I wish you safe passage.”

\--

Her signal carries clear and strong, her proof that she is not alone.

“This is … probably a trap,” she says, her voice shaking. “But it’s the only way we _might_ find out. So. We’re gonna do that. Together.”

Gingerly, she picks her way along the side of the building. “For those of you who, like me, never saw one of these lost cities when they were whole, they’re … kind of cool, actually. They don’t look anything like the city centers. I mean,” she pauses. “They kind of do. There’s these giant buildings, and they’re mostly glass, but there’s other kinds too. There’s … there’s more variety. They look like they might have been a nice place to live.”

She shivers.

“They’re way, way too quiet, though. And something’s definitely here.”

She stops dead, her voice dropping to a whisper. “ADVENT. ADVENT is here. With what looks like … flamethrowers? Everybody, this is really strange. They’re not interested in me.”

“Miss Royston?” A voice asks from behind her. “Come with me. Time grows short.”

“Who are you?”

“Peter Van Doorn. But that’s not really the answer you want now, is it? You’ve come a long way, Miss Royston. And you’ve got bigger questions. Come along. I promise, we won’t leave your audience hanging.”

She follows him down into a basement; the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. She should not do this. This is how her life ends, here on live radio.

She has not come this far to give up now.

The door shuts heavy behind her. Van Doorn gestures her to a seat, and takes one of his own, across the table from her.

“Alright, Miss Royston,” he says. “Ask away.”

“Who do you work for?”

“These days? I’m retired. I’m an old man.”

“Who _did_ you work for?”

He sucks at his teeth. “Could answer you any number of ways.”

“Most recent employer,” she grinds out.

“I serve the great and glorious Elders.”

“ADVENT.”

“Naturally.”

“What did you do for them?”

“I assisted in strategic operations against known collaborators.”

“You murdered innocents.”

“Those who cannot be swayed to the Elders grace will be brought to heel by their wrath.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“That’s life, my darling girl.”

“ I’m not your _darling_ anything. What the hell is ADVENT doing with the civilians they’ve abducted?”

“They’ve been called to a higher purpose.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It most certainly is. D’you mind if I smoke?”

“I didn’t come here to play ping pong.”

“You don’t know _what_ you came here for.”

“I came here for answers.”

“And that’s what I’m giving you.”

“I’ll take my chances elsewhere,” she says, standing and walking for the door.

“The Avatar project is an attempt to give the Elder Ethereals a more suitable physical host, one that is less prone to tissue degeneration. In order to manufacture these vessels, the most psionically gifted members of the human population, people like yourself, Miss Royston --- yes, we know about your little talent --- were culled. Their genetic material was harvested, and reborn into something greater.”

“How?”

“You’ve never availed yourself of a Gene Therapy clinic, have you? Ah, I suppose you’re too young.” 

“You’re saying the Clinics are a front?’

“They bring all into the light of the Elders --- just not in the same way.”

She shudders. “I don’t believe you.”

“You want proof?” He asks, gesturing to his own datapad, now resting on his leg. “I’m happy to provide it.”

“Fine,” she says. “Let’s see.”

He keys in a few buttons. “It’ll take a few minutes. We’ll be done by then anyway.”

“Is that what you’re planning to do to Will Weir?” She is almost afraid to ask.

Van Doorn’s lips curl back. “Oh, no. Commander Weir has come to serve a very special place in our organization.”

“He wouldn’t,” Sally spits.

“A lot of faith in a man you’ve never met.”

“I trust my mother.”

“You trust memories that aren’t yours. Memory is _so_ malleable.”

“He was the first,” she says. “He was the first one who disappeared.”

“Neither the first, nor the last. But I’ll give you that. His … aid was not given of his own volition.”

“What did you do to him?”

“We’ve given him a place of honor. He’s integral to the Elders’ vision for humanity.”

“A place of honor while you decimate the world he tried to protect?”

“What a _rosy_ vision, Miss Royston.”

“They can’t get away with this. We’re broadcasting live. _Everyone_ who’s listening knows now.”

“And they will all kneel before the glory of the Elders.”

“There’s gotta be thousands of people missing! Do you really think humanity will just give up now that they know?”

“Millions, Miss Royston. You’re a little late to the party, or did you really think you were the first to have made it this far?” He asks. “Please. You’re a child. You’re just the only one to have left a paper trail. Don’t you wonder why your associates keep ending up dead?”

She swallows hard.

Van Doorn reaches into a jacket pocket and sets two pills on the table. He takes one and swallows it dry. “I’m giving you an option. An out. You have your answers. You’ve broadcasted your cause. You have to pay for it somehow. These pills are the easy way.”

Sally’s eyes dart to the datapad; her signal is still clear. The upload continues unabashed. “I think I’ll take the other option.”

“Oh, they’re coming,” he purrs. “I’d take the pills, Miss Royston. It’s a far less gruesome end than whatever they’ll do to you.”

Her fingers wrap around the pistol in her bag. 

“They know now. _Someone_ will stop it. They’ll _find_ Weir.” 

“You want his location? I’ll transfer it to you,” he says, tapping his datapad, “but I’m afraid you won’t have much time. And the second you broadcast it, well…” The man offers her a wry grin. “Oh, Miss Royston --- or, should I say, Miss Martin. You don’t have a wing or a prayer. So much like your father.”

Her voice catches in her throat. “You son of a bitch.” Briefly, she entertains the idea of shooting him, but realizes she’ll need the meager bullets she has against the oncoming forces. “Why do this?”

“Because catching you? Is hard. You’ve got better angels looking out for you than you realize. It would seem your ongoing _antics_ have caught his attention. But letting you hand yourself over? Well, that was easy. And someone with your talents? Well. You too will serve a cause. You can feel him, can’t you?” 

Van Doorn smiles and laughs, then begins to choke as blood foams from his mouth.

There is a commotion at the door, heavy footfalls and the telltale jabber of ADVENT troopers. The man’s eyes roll up into his head and he slumps forward, dead. 

“If you can hear me out there,” she says, “I apologize, but I think our show is about to be cut short.”

The door falls under the blow of an ADVENT trooper’s kick. 

“You know what’s coming!” She yells, cocking the gun. “You know what you have to do!” 

Troopers pour into the room. Strong arms wrap around her waist, and one of the troopers raises a boot, preparing to smash the datapad, its screen blinking a comforting ‘UPLOAD COMPLETE.’

“Don’t let them win!” She shouts. “You have to keep fighting! You have to ---“

The feed goes dead. 

On board the Avenger, John Bradford rises from his seat at the bar. He has work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

She wakes on the cold metal floor of a dark cell. She can’t make out anything around her, but can feel the now familiar presence.

He is still there at the back of her mind: a brief flash of frustration and then something else, something she can’t verbalize but can instantly parse: _I’m here; I’m not going anywhere._

She is terribly out of practice. It’s been years since she’s had to use her talents like this. _Are you really him?_

Again, more impressions than words, but it conveys what it needs to: she’s found William Weir.

Well, sort of.                          

The reality of the situation washes over her slowly. She is in ADVENT custody; she is a known Resistance collaborator and a known psionics user. There is no one coming for her, no one who even knows where she is.

No, she will not die on live radio. She will die in some sterile ADVENT laboratory, screaming.

The realization is like having ice water dumped over her head, and the surge of adrenaline leaves her double over, breaths ragged and gasping for air.

There’s that same feeling again, like comforting a child who’s woken up from the same nightmare time and time again. _You’re okay_.

Her heart is racing and she realizes she’s dangerously close to hyperventilating.

 _We trusted him_ , her mother once told her. _Weir liked to play things close to his chest, but he got the job done. He got our people home. We just … accepted it after a while. We couldn’t see the bigger picture the way he could._

She hopes _Maman_ was not exaggerating.

The door slides open and troopers drag her out into the hall.

His presence changes. It’s calm, authoritative: _Do what I tell you_.

They strap her to a table. 

She keeps her focus where he tells her: on him. Through the pain, through the pulling, the tearing at her consciousness, she never wavers.

Finally, they release her, letting her collapse to the floor before dragging her back. Her head feels like it is filled with gauze. Her thoughts come slow and heavy. Her body aches.

Still, if she reaches, she feels what she thinks is satisfaction, what she wants to be pride: _Well done._

\--

There is a commotion outside, but her head is so heavy.

He pokes at her: images of bug out bags and the sound of boots against earth, the feel of cool night air against her skin. _Time to go_.  
The door slides open and a man is there.

“You’re not ADVENT,” she offers, her head lolling up to look at him.

“Definitely not,” he says, kneeling down. 

The voice sparks something in Weir, something like hope or joy or wild, stupid abandon, something he tries to shove back, to keep from her. There are her mother’s memories, her father’s. She knows this man, but she does not know him.

A name cuts through the haze, the first real concrete word. _John. John John John._ She flashes to her mother, a picture before them on the table. She is labeling faces, trying to impart some history. _“Central Officer John Bradford,”_ Maman _says, her finger tapping a face. “Weir’s second-in-command. We all liked him.”_

“Bradford?” She asks, her voice still rough.

“We’ll handle the introductions later. Can you walk?”

“Think so,” she groans.

He wraps an arm around her waist and hauls her to her feet. She leans heavily against him. An officer takes aim at them, and purple energy flows forth from her fingers, stunning their would-be attacker.

 _That’s new_ , she notes.

Again, the memory of wind on her face, the smell of a coming storm. _Go go go_ , Weir insists.

“Central!” Someone calls. “They just called in back up. We’re running out of time.”

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you out of here.”

\--

She collapses against him in the aircraft, Weir’s quiet joy mixing with her own relief.

She is safe.

\--

“So, let me get this straight,” Central says from his position next to her cot. “You heard a rumor that there were ADVENT defectors removing chips, and you decided finding them was your best hope.”

At the fringes of her mind, Weir seems at peace. She remembers what her parents were like around one another; she can’t miss the similarity in reaction. She’s certain it’s more telling than he intends for it to be.

“Yeah,” she says, settling against the pillow. “It wasn’t like I could just go to a doctor. I had good sources. I had to try.”

“It could have killed you.”

“Death or disappearance: is there really much of a difference?”

He grimaces. “So, this is what we’ve come to…”

Life hasn’t been kind to him, of that much she’s certain. He looks tired, and sore, but there is kindness in his eyes. His hands were gentle cleaning the gash she hadn’t noticed cutting across the bridge of her nose. He’d teased her about looking like her mom.

She wants to trust someone, to trust him.

Weir doesn’t have reservations, as far as she can tell.

“There’s something I should tell you,” she begins, “but you’re gonna think I’m crazy.”

“Royston, I’ve spent the last six weeks listening to you taunt ADVENT on a live broadcast. You just told me you trusted total strangers to perform brain surgery based on hearsay. I know for a fact you broke into the Alpha site. And that’s not even counting the part where you _waltzed_ into an ADVENT _quarantine zone_ because a _stranger_ taunted you on the radio. The ‘crazy’ ship sailed a while ago.”

She grimaces. “It doesn’t sound good when you put it like that.”

“That’s because it’s not good. But that’s not the point. The point is that I already know you’re nuts and, yet, we’re still having this talk.”

“I know where Weir is.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Royston, it’s been twenty years. No one’s been able to find him.”

“We have to go get him,” she insists.

“Your datapad’s in pieces,” he counters. “We don’t have anything from it.”

She shakes her head, then immediately regrets the decision as her vision swims. “No, no, I do. I have a backup. It was set up to relay any new content to an outside storage device. I know where he is.”

“Then ADVENT already knows about it, and they’ve moved him.”

“No,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut. “They don’t. He helped. He helped me keep it from them.”

“Who?”

“The Commander.”

Bradford buries his face in his hands. Silence hangs between them for a moment. She can feel Weir stir.

“I told you you’d think I’m nuts.”

He picks his head up. “No, I don’t think you’re nuts. I think that sounds like something he’d do.”

“He misses you. A lot, I think. I don’t think I was supposed to know and I definitely wasn’t supposed to tell you that, but…”

There is a faint grin on the man’s face. “Where’s your backup?”

“Skirmishers have it. They set it up for me.”

“Seems like you made some in-roads there.”

“I’m not … I’m not afraid of them. I was willing to help. They’ve always done what they could for me. They’ll get us the data. All of it.” She hauls herself to a sitting position, and finds Central’s arm around her waist again.

“Let’s not run before we can walk.”

“We’re running out of time.” She squeezes her eyes shut as the world spins again.

“Let me handle that. You’re not going into the field like this.”

“I could help,” she protests.  
  
“You are,” he says, setting her back down on the cot. “But I don’t want to have to drag you out of an ADVENT facility again. And I don’t think you want a second stay.”

“Never.”

“That’s about what I thought. You do your part, and I’ll do mine.”

\--

“Sally Royston,” Betos says from the screen. “It is good to see you whole.”

“I got lucky,” she grins, sheepish.

The distinct impression of a skeptical eyebrow flits across her mind. Weir’s meaning is clear: _Lucky is an understatement_.

“They are but False Gods,” the Skirmisher reminds her. “I take it you are in need of your data?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Transferring now.”

\--

She’s forgotten how comforting it is, having someone to talk to. Their conversations may not be conventional, certainly not conducted in their hodgepodge of words and impressions and memories, but it does not lessen them.

He pulls on her natural curiosity surrounding the ship and the crew; she is more than happy to serve as his eyes and ears outside of the tank. She listens in doorways, in corridors, trying to bring him what news she can. She walks barefoot outside, breathing in the smell of the trees, of the air, of the world far removed from ADVENT, and sinks her toes into the moss.

She cannot imagine a tank is a particularly stimulating place to spend twenty years.

He worries about Central --- that much she is certain of. He bears a particular disdain for drinking for reasons she can’t know; for as much as things bleed over, he seems to have control around those memories. She takes to passing Bradford water when she can, which he takes with a kind of knowing look. She recognizes it only helps in the moment, but trusts Weir to deal with in a bigger way.

 _Trust_ , she thinks. She _does_ trust Weir, and trusts Central, too, in a way she’d forgotten she could. She trusts Betos and her people absolutely, but being able to rely on your own kind is somehow foreign to her after all this time. She has put her life in the hands of strangers time and time again, yet she is still here.

She bumps up against his presence with some mix of gratitude and affection, trusting he’ll understand the gist. There is surprise there, and skepticism too, aimed not at her, but at someone, something else. She brushes up again, a kind of affirmation.

He meets her with a feeling like the smallest of smiles.

\--

There is a message from Central when she checks her datapad upon waking from a quick nap between shifts: _Cmdr location confirmed. Good work._

She is filled with a joy entirely her own. _It was worth it_ , she tells herself.

\--

She gathers with the rest of the crew on bridge duty, watching the feed from inside of the ADVENT clinic.

“This is the place,” Central says.

“Are you _sure_?” Lily counters from her position at the screen.

Weir is tense. She’d relayed the whole operation to him, blow by blow, which was perhaps not the wisest choice. Still, she has never been anything but upfront with him. She doesn’t intend to change that now. 

She worries at her thumb, gnawing at the cuticle. On screen, Central pulls the lever, and her heart stutters.

The doors slide open and green liquid drains, leaving only a figure encased in a red suit.

She does the mental equivalent of clutching at Weir’s shirtsleeve. _We’re here; they did it; they found you; they ---_

She jumps as Central smashes the glass.

She tries to think of something good, something comforting. Finally, she settles on a word. _Home_ , she tells him. _Time to come home._

\--

She’s not sure why she didn’t expect chip removal to bleed over.

Intense emotions are hard to control. Trauma is hard to control. There’s certainly both of those factors in spades.

Still, she has to admit, she’s surprised to come to on the floor, Montoya’s fingers on her wrist.

“Royston.” He grins at her. “Have fun?”

She groans. “They’re never gonna let me near the field.”

“You’ve got time.”

 

\--

 

Weir has much better control outside of the tank and free of the chip. She can’t say she’s surprised; ADVENT would have been stupid to leave his abilities unimpeded.

Still, it’s a bit strange to see, rather than feel him; to hear him talk in words instead of impressions.

She passes him a mug of hot chocolate on her way through the bridge to quarters.

 _Thanks, Sal_ , he says and it takes her a moment to realize it’s not spoken aloud.

She turns, offering him a smile over her shoulder.

 _Maman_ was right: he is their best shot.


End file.
